Tomorrow Cannot Come Soon Enough
by Sethera
Summary: When a badger lord finally vanquishes a warlord stoat, he unintentionally slays the family along with him, shattering one child's dreams as well. This is the story of the child's path for revenge, and the twisting his mind went through for it to happen. On hiatus.
1. Prologue

Full Summar_y_

When Badger Lord Boulderpaw vanquishes his long-sought foe, the High Gorgish, terror of the coastlands and scourge of all that is good and pure, he also accidentally destroys his sister and her mate in a fit of rage worthy of the name Bloodwrath. But this one accident leads to a mess of things when the son, haunted by the red eyes of their killer and driven by grief to the brink of insanity, starts a bloody quest for revenge that brings in numerous other creatures. The rise of a warlord, and the struggle to keep his morality when only one thing appeals to him. Revenge.

Hey, this is my third story here, but anyway, I have a few things to say:

1) From experience in dealing with internet peeps, I will tell you this before you start questioning me. Yes, I've noticed the interchanging of "sir" and "sah" here, and yes, it's inconsistent. But I'm taking a leaf out of Jacques' books by doing this. Oftentimes, I've noticed, when taking notes on the creatures' accents, that he _does_ use different words to mean the same thing. Example: "ye" and "you", and "gudd" and "good." All of these examples were used by the same type of creatures, in the same books, for the same thing. It's not that "ye" is a hedgehog term and "you" is an otter term, though there are cases where this is so. Most likely, BJ decided to use whichever word he thought would best describe the sound the creatures were making. And whether gudd, which has a greater emphasis on the Ds, or good, which prolongs the Os, are both used in a sentence is beside the point. It just means that the creature is saying something a little differently then. We say our words differently at times by accident, and we don't expect woodland (or wuddlan') creatures to be any better than we are. When I use "sir", that means that the hare is being more humble and quiet, and "sah" is used as more of a bark, a sharp order. Also, some hares may use sah and others sir. It just so happens that others use both. :) Sorry that was so long, but I just wanted to get that out of the way to stall any comments like: "Hyuck, u have sir and sah in the same sentince. R you mad! Learn to scpell befor u post something X(." Also, usually the person emulates what he or she complained about too XD.

2) I don't own Redwall nor its characters, and I never will :( I wish I could, but then I'd be dead. And that would truly suck.

3) I hope that you enjoy the story!

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><p><strong>Tomorrow Cannot Come Soon Enough<strong>

Prologue

Lord Boulderpaw woke up with a horrible headache and blood all over him.

It was spattered everywhere, showing the fate of the long-detested warlord, the High Gorgish. His army lay in blood-strewn heaps, and the fighting hares who had helped the badger were moving sluggishly, burying the bodies of dead comrades. One young hare, Pennyfeather, lay weeping over the body of her brother, a new recruit into the Long Patrol. His eyes stared unblinking at the blue sky above.

The badger lord groaned and shifted, and realized that not much time had passed since killing the vile stoat that had caused it all. Turning to glare at his nemesis, he saw two unfamiliar bodies, both stoats, which lay nearby.

"His family, sah," spoke a voice, and Lord Boulderpaw blinked, and saw one of his warriors, Colonel Leafear. "Tried to protect him, begging your pardon, sir, but you bowled them right over. Not the done thing, sah, killing civilians."

"Civilians?" the badger rumbled. "Were they?"

"Yes, tried to persuade you and the Gorgish chap to stop fighting, wot. But both of you wouldn't have any of that, sir. In the end, they died while you were in your Bloodwrath state, sir."

"Hmm..." the badger lord stroked his chin with a mailed paw. "I want you to bury them, then. They didn't deserve to be killed like that."

"No sirree, Milord. Good of you to do that, sir. Oh, confound it all! I forgot to tell you, sah. They had a son, name of Mesines, what do we do with him?"

Lord Boulderpaw flinched. Any survivor of such carnage wouldn't have anything pleasant to say to him.

"Leave him," commanded the badger wearily. He didn't want to face the accusing eyes that he knew would be staring at him, prodding him to guilt. The High Gorgish was bad, and he deserved to be wiped off the face of the earth. But his young relative shouldn't have had to see what he saw. The Bloodwrath was both a blessing...and a curse.

Meanwhile, a young stoat glared at the sky, the face of a badger in his maddening eyes.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The field lay bare. The only remains of the battle were the bloodstained ground and the large pile of burnt ashes, smoke still curling up from the top, and soaring away to follow the wind.

It had felt like months had passed, yet it was only hours. Mere hours for the powerful hares to gather up the bodies of the slain, and either bury them…or burn them.

Mesines had watched with passionless eyes as the High Gorgish, terror of the coastlines and scourge of all that is good and true burned at the top. His standard had been gouged deep in one eye, the tattered flag a macabre impression of victory for the vermin.

Victory. Hah.

When it burned, the flames waved, engulfing the dead army. Underneath the flickering presence of fire, they looked like they were twitching and dancing in a false imitation of life.

The young stoat had felt neither pity nor pain for their passing. The High Gorgish had terrorized his sister and her mate as well as heaping scorn upon their only child, and any rat, weasel, fox, stoat, or ferret that followed such a one deserved what he got.

_ "Haven't I told you, time and time again, raise that sword higher! Ye'll never be a match for any who know how to use a weapon! Fools! I'm surrounded by them!"_

The sudden memory made Mesines wince, and he looked around, cringing slightly.

_The High Gorgish is gone_, he scoffed, _but he was right. I _am_ a fool. Cowering like those bullies that served him. No, I can't allow myself to show such weakness._

Looking up at the darkening sky of sunset, he saw the sun itself, a ball of golden light surrounded by waves of amber and orange that deepened into blood-red and later a purplish-blue.

"Is it wrong, to be awed by such beauty still—when the bodies of my parents lay buried six feet beneath the ground?" he wondered.

The stoat felt that they would approve.

Would they approve of what he was _going_ to do, then?

Perhaps. But he felt a sickening sense that they would definitely not. Revenge was never their cup of tea.

"But it will be mine," he muttered from beneath clenched teeth. "What else can I do to appease myself? To gain justice for their pointless end?"

That badger! He would die, even if it took him the rest of his life to accomplish it. They had told him to move on with his life, live peaceably without harming others. Hah! Move on! And what would that do? How ever could that ease the gaping wound in his heart? At least the hares felt some sense of peace, presence of mind, for they had slain the killers of their comrades, their family, and their loved ones. Oh, it was okay for them to have their revenge, but he, a stoat, could not, simply because if _he_ did it, it would be an evil act.

Suddenly, he started laughing. Laughing at the decay of the world, the pointless prejudice of others, and the suffering of life. He laughed until no more came, until the wound in his heart felt better, and a slight buzzing in his ears told him that he had run out of breath. Gasping for air, Mesines clenched and unclenched his claws, a pleasant smile still on his face. Eventually the feeling of nothing left him, and he was swept back by another wave of emotion.

"Mother, father," he whispered at last, "You _will_ get justice for what happened—it's the least I can do for you."

Knowing that they wouldn't like it, but not being able to live with himself otherwise, the young stoat searched about for a weapon that the hares hadn't been able to find and burn. Despite their sharp eyes, the hares had been tired too. Most of all, they just wanted to limp back home. Home to a good fire with food and creatures to welcome them back. Home, a place that Mesines would never have again.

Clenching his teeth tightly and telling himself over and over again to forget about it, his eyes lit up as they spotted a long, double-bladed sword. This had been wielded by a hare captain who had dealt out death quickly and efficiently. Mesines had watched him move, and was impressed by the way he used both blades to his advantage. He was dead now, though, felled by an arrow he hadn't seen coming.

Picking it up, he was winded by the weight. He'd have to practice lifting it, but for now...his gaze lit upon his old longsword that lay in his paw. The stoat would practice with his old weapon more. If, he reasoned, he could master one sword, certainly that would go a long ways to learning to use a double sword. Although he had some experience with his sword, the stoat was still a long ways away from being an expert.

Picking up the longsword, he lifted it easily. It was less than half the weight of the double sword! Mesines had no need to clean it, however, having been captured almost right away, so it was free of blood. Unlike the double sword, which was a work of art, his was a plain weapon, with no frills and numerous cuts scarring the blade.

Now, how to transport both weapons...

888

"Father, come quick!" a small mouse scurried over to where a larger one sat, munching a cheese and mushroom pasty.

"What is it, Fivea?" he asked, stance sharpening. Quickly, he gobbled the rest of the pasty, shaking his whiskers free of crumbs.

"A stoat, by the looks of it, pushing a wheelbarrow piled with weapons. He doesn't look like he's up to any good."

"Hmm..." the mouse thought about this for a moment, and then gestured to his daughter. "Go to your mother and tell her to gather up the children and grandfather. Uncle Harding is already inside.

"What about you, father?"

"I'll see what this stoat's up to," he spoke, a grim light in his normally kindly brown eyes.

888

Mesines trudged forward, feeling weary and hot. It was the end of a long, horrible day, and he bore little hope of survival to finish out his quest.

It was a stroke of luck to find the wheelbarrow, however. It had been used to carry supplies during the war, but had had the new task of carting dead bodies to wherever they would go: the mass grave or the burning pile.

However, this did not faze the stoat in the slightest. Being the nephew of a warlord, he was used to being in close proximity to blood and gore. But this walking was taking a toll on him. Setting down the handles of the barrow, he sighed and sat down just at Mossflower Woods' edge, taking a short rest.

888

The battle had taken place on a point halfway between Mossflower Wood and Salamandastron, the mountain of fire. The High Gorgish had been seeking to attack Redwall, but had been confronted by a large army of hares. The conflict had been harsh and hard, with numerous deaths on both sides. Although the High Gorgish had pressed numerous vermin into his horde, the hares on the other side had been skilled, fighting veterans. And then there was the badger lord! Nobody could stand against him, with his gleaming plate armor and formidable weapon, unfeeling of the numerous wounds inflicted on him by his foes. A large axe blade on both sides, gleaming silver in the morning light, it had been an instrument of death and destruction on the battlefield. But worst of all was his monstrous strength. He had roared with reddened eyes at the High Gorgish after the death of a hare named Major Brightbob. According to the hares, the major had been his best friend and staunch ally. So great was the badger lord's rage that he had clenched one mailed paw around the stoat's neck, forgetting his weapon entirely. The stoat had died gasping for mercy and covered in Lord Boulderpaw's blood, and then the badger had fallen unconscious beneath numerous spear wounds from the surrounding vermin.

But before the stoat's death, his family had tried to intervene.

Pacifa and her husband, Iren, had leapt in front of the badger lord with courage that Mesines had not known they possessed. They had broken free of the ring of hares that had taken them captive with a wild strength they had never shown before. Their words had been of peace and they pleaded with the badger to let the High Gorgish live, sure that he had learned his lesson. One of the hares had looked like he was going to say something but Lord Boulderpaw had knocked them aside, seeing only more vermin in the way between him and his fated enemy. They had crashed into a large rock nearby and slid down like rag dolls.

Mesines thought that that must have been when he started screaming. Looking out from the circle of hares, he had screamed and screamed until he felt soothing paws on his shoulder, and he had slumped down, weeping bitterly.

He had passed out after a while, and woken up in the care of a nurse-hare.

She had treated his wounds coldly and efficiently, but her paws were gentle as they replaced bandages and wiped a wet cloth over his forehead.

Of course his parents were wrong, that was the worst part. Knowing that they had sacrificed their lives to save somebody that would never change was torment. That they had cared more about Pacifa's stupid brother than the son that they would leave behind. They had to have known that Lord Boulderpaw would not listen; such was the wrath he was in. They had to have known...hadn't they?

That was the thought that had raged throughout his brain when he had woken up. But the young stoat had been jolted from his anguish when the nurse-hare had told him the fate of his parents, something he'd already known. She had also said, clearly and concisely, that Colonel Leafear or something had declared him to be left alone, the only known survivor of the carnage. After telling her some information about himself that she jotted down in a pad of paper, she left and returned later on with news of the badger lord's awakening. Tears trailed down her cheeks, but when her eyes snapped onto him, a look of anger so intense crossed her face that the stoat was scared for his life.

When he had, timidly, asked her what would happen to him, she had glanced at him in disgust. "The colonel has said that you are to go free, courtesy of Lord Boulderpaw. You better be grateful, scum!" she spat out. "The badger lord has better things to do than spare the lives of worthless trash like you, wot!"

Flinching at her harsh words, but knowing that she probably had a good reason for her anger, he lowered his head, seething silently. The very fact that he owed his life to that dumb stripedog made his stomach coil.

Softening somewhat at his lack of retaliation, the hare said: "Make a living for yourself besides killing. Lay down your sword and pick up the plow. Peace is something that all of us want." She turned away, muttering, "Enjoy your life, something my brother never had a chance to do."

"Hey, Pennyfeather, where do you want this?" asked a hare with a makeshift cot.

"Put it down there," the nurse had replied, and then turned to the stoat. "Your injuries aren't that severe, so you can leave anytime."

Mesines took the hint and got up, wincing at the dizziness that filled his head and the pain from his wounds. He staggered out into the afternoon air, where he helped with the transportation of the dead, burying, and then watching the burning of the horde. Mixed emotions had passed through the stoat at the sight. Triumph, grief from thoughts of his parents, and an overwhelming coldness that made his limbs tremble. Although his body was hot from the proximity of the flames, his heart was as icy as snow.

888

But now, his mind went back to the present again, and, groaning slightly, he lifted himself from the road. The wheelbarrow lay beside him, and he was about to lift the shafts to push it when a voice paused him.

It was harsh, unyielding as iron, like the hares' voices had been. Shivering slightly with fear, the stoat heard it again.

"What are you doing on this land, vermin? Mark me, I won't repeat myself twice!"

"N-nothing, just traveling," Mesines hated the way his words trembled, but reached for his sword, trying to think on how he was going to get out of the situation.

A whizz and a thunk, and a sharply pointed dagger lay embedded next to the paw that had moved for the weapon.

"Liar! You are a stoat, and a thief too, by the looks of it! Prepare to defend yourself, vermin!"

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><p>Heh, sorry for all the flashbacks... -_- but they were necessary, I assure you. Also if you can connect the dots between this chapter and the prologue, you either have a good memory or you're connect-the-dots inclined. Either way, you win XD.<p>

Having dabbled into researching a few wars, I have decided to create nurse-hares, which are always necessary XD Jacques never really goes into that, but I feel that if you have wounded, you need designated military-minded hares to take care of them after the battle.

And if you can get the mouse baby references, you my friend, think like me XD.

And if you think the mouse is being too cruel, try to be a worried father watching a stoat, who everybody knows are evil and liars, dragging a bloody wheelbarrow behind him with two vicious and military-looking weapons in it. Oh yeah, and you don't know if he knows any other vermin that you need to be worried about. Yeah, I'd treat him like scum too.

Note: the 888 that separates the scenes is because on the keyboard it is the number below the asterisk symbol. And, being the weirdo that I am, and seeing how Jacques uses the asterisk symbol to separate _his_ scenes, I thought I'd take a leaf out of his book (especially since FFN doesn't allow you to use the asterisk symbol for some reason :P).

**And thank you to those who added this to their alerts, and especially to those that reviewed! Sociopathic King and Abbot Langus, you rock! :)**


	3. Chapter 2

Me: Hey, it's me again! I bet you weren't expecting me so soon!

Random vermin again: Arr! Run for the hills! _She's_ here again!

Mesines: Can't you leave me alone? I'm having a relaxing moment here.

Me: Doing what?

Mesines: *putting down his knitting needles* Nothing. I'm just...uh, yeah, stabbing things with these, yeah. *hides his half-done scarf*

Me: Uh-huh. Wow. Um...now we know what vermin do in their free time. Hmm...I wonder what Cluny does to ward off _his_ stress.

Mesines: He collects stamps. With pictures of the Liberty Bell on them. Gabool joins him on Sundays. They're trying to enlist Damug too, but the Firstblade is spending his time gardening, trying to get over his fear of roses.

Me: ...

**Thank you very much for adding this story to favorites, alerts, and reviewing! Special thanks to Abbot Langus and LittleCatGirl for reviewing! :D**

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

_"Liar! You are a stoat, and a thief too, by the looks of it! Prepare to defend yourself, vermin!"_

888

Mesines tried to prepare himself, he really did.

But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. A short, plump mouse stepped out from the foliage ahead of him. His stocky features made him look harmless, but the stoat could see fire in his eyes.

And as much as the ridiculousness of the creature's features amused him, those eyes scared him.

Yes, he admitted it. He was scared. For what could he do but wait to die in the face of a warrior spirit?

He had seen it blazing in the eyes of the hares, and worst of all, in the badger. Something drove them on, making them strong, but he had never known what it was.

He still didn't.

"You are the worst!" berated the mouse. "Robbing helpless creatures and preying on the weak! What kind of motherless son would do that?"

That comment hurt. It stung, biting deep into the stoat's heart. Like a knife blade, it twisted in a circular motion, opening wounds that were only just starting to dull.

The stoat glared at the mouse, something making him rise to his feet. He took the longsword that lay on the wheelbarrow and hefted it into his hand, blandly watching the enemy take out the sword resting in a scabbard on his back.

"Doesn't matter whether I robbed anybody or not," he said coldly, "But for that insult, prepare to die!"

They stood apart, watching each other. Nobody moved until a loud scream was heard.

"Fivea!" gasped the mouse. "If you had anything to do with this, vermin—!"

"Pfft, like how?" retaliated Mesines. "You better go rescue whoever's screaming, mouse!"

_Isn't that what a hero does?_ he thought bitterly.

He watched the mouse run off, and then saw, out of the corner of his eye, a large, evil-looking weasel with a wriggling sack in his claws.

_It's not my problem,_ Mesines thought. _That mouse can take care of it._

But the mouse was gone, and probably would not make it in time to find the weasel before the villain killed whatever was in the sack.

_Urgh, to Hellgates with this!_ he thought angrily, shaking his head. Standing in front of the weasel, he held his sword out, blade tip up, in a defensive gesture.

The weasel, stopping, glared at him with his one good eye, "Harr, get out of me way, stoatguts!"

_A pirate from the sounds of it_ conjectured the stoat quickly. His thoughts moved at a rapid pace, helping him to discern the enemy's motivations.

_Alone, probably meaning that his ship got sunk by another pirate, either that or they beached into a cove to get supplies. Either a survivor...or a scout. Whatever it is, I can't let him get away, or I'll have one murderous weasel after me, or a whole crew to deal with. His motivation...probably ransom for food, seeing as how pirates don't know how to eat on land. Either that, or the mouse _is_ food, which I highly doubt. He doesn't have the look of a cannibal, though I could be wrong..._

He was interrupted by the loud call of the pirate weasel: "Ahoy! Ye gonna flee like the coward ye are?"

The stoat glared at the weasel, his sword now pointing straight at the other's heart. "Make me, fattymouth!" he mocked.

"Ooh, yer goin' down! Nobeast calls me fattymouth an' lives!" sneered the other. He brought out a wicked-looking cutlass from his belt and tried swiping it at Mesines. The stoat leapt back, evading the slashes easily and going under the other's defense with his blade whirling.

He stabbed the other straight in the stomach and jumped back, avoiding the wayward strikes his way. He watched dispassionately as the weasel fell dead to the ground, the sack falling beside him. Cutting open the sack, Mesines enlarged the hole with his claws and gasped as a small mouse leap into his startled arms.

"Yaaay! My saviow! What's your name, sir?"

"M-m-my name?" stammered the stoat, eyes widening at the bold actions of the mousebabe.

"Yes, my name bees 'Atow, what be yours?" the mouse said before sucking his thumb.

"Um...Mesines," he smiled and nodded his head slightly.

"Wheee! Meznuz, Meznuz, my saviow!" squealed the mouse happily.

Mesines winced at the pitch and the distortion of his name, but said nothing, only watched the mouse celebrate, unsure what to do.

"What is that?" the plump mouse from before came stomping toward them, eyes widening before narrowing in anger. "You! I should have known!" he raised his sword.

"Um..." started the stoat.

"No, no, he sayva me dadda!" squeaked the babe in Mesines's arms, before bouncing out. "He slay da nasty weazaw!"

The older mouse's eyes strayed to the blood-soaked weasel, and then to the sword Mesines held, with its bloody point. The stoat could see the bees working in his brain, before he turned back to Mesines.

"Thank you so much for saving my son," he said, reluctantly. "Um...I guess I'm sorry for earlier, haha," he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I guess we got off on the wrong paw—"

"No need for that," interrupted Mesines smoothly. "However, keep an eye on your children in the future." The stoat started to walk away.

"Wait, no—!" started the mouse.

"I am very busy, and I wouldn't want to intrude on your _family_ time," said the stoat icily. "Therefore, let us be off with no hard feelings between us," and with that, he turned away.

The mouse winced, and noticed how exhausted the stoat was.

"Wait, you look tired! As thanks—would you like to stay at our cave for the night?"

The stoat paused, and thought about it. True, he wanted to find a good place in the woods to train. The beach was too close to the hares, and they had told him to give up fighting. They'd be suspicious if they saw him practicing with his sword, and for good reason. For only one thing drove him: revenge upon their badger lord.

Maybe he could stop at the cave for the night and rest. Certainly, it would be safer than anywhere else for now.

"Fine," he sighed, turning around. "Lead me to your cave."

888

The cave was unlike anything that Mesines had ever seen. The opening was small, barely large enough for him to squeeze through. Underbrush surrounded the entrance, helping to conceal it. However, the fire in front seemed to undermine the forest's efforts at hiding the area. Not to mention the cleared area around it that not only prevented a forest fire, but also prevented adequate concealment.

"Is that how the weasel found you?" asked the stoat, nodding at the fire.

The mouse flushed, "Yes. Unfortunately, I was not as vigilant as I should've been," he shook his head. "And for my foolishness, I almost lost a son."

Mesines looked at "Atow" his eyes softening slightly. "Yes, but he's back now. You should move forward and be grateful that you have him still."

The mouse turned to look at him, eyes sharpening. "You speak as one who knows the pain of that loss."

"That is none of your business," replied the stoat cuttingly.

"Forgive me," mumbled the mouse. "I am still rattled by the near-loss of my son and my manners are not as they should be."

Mesines shook his head, laughing slightly inside at the idea that a _mouse_ would care about politeness toward a _stoat_. "It is okay. I am not as...mannered as I should be either."

"Speaking of manners," and this time the mouse _did_ look embarrassed. "We should introduce ourselves. My name is Araban, and I am in your debt for saving my son, Eightor."

"Eightor? I thought it was Atow," Mesines raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"Ah, that is baby talk. Have you never been around babies before?"

"Never," the stoat shook his head. He and his family were the only civilians allowed near the army. And they were only allowed such closeness because of their relations to the warlord. A stab of pain went through him at the memory of Iren and Pacifa, trying relentlessly to convince the mad stoat to stop. He had ignored them, and the only thing that kept them from being executed outright was the fact that they were family.

Even villains cared something for family, Mesines thought.

"Yes," continued Araban, not noticing or ignoring the stoat's thoughtful silence. "They are still learning to pronounce words, as you might have noticed. Eightor is only a few seasons old."

"I see."

"So," the mouse took a stick to poke the embers of the fire. "What is your name?" he asked casually.

"Mesines," the stoat did not see how telling his name would do any harm.

"That _is_ a mouthful. Do you have a nickname?"

"No," he would definitely not mention the nickname his parents had come up for him.

"That's too bad. How about I call you Mes?"

"Fine by me.

The stoat watched as the flames flared up again under the mouse's expert guidance. Fascinated, he watched the fire, its tongues curling like dancers as it flickered, beckoning him closer with a multicolored hand, dark purple on the outside, white hot on the inside. Under the sudden darkness of night, it flared like a beacon.

"Are you sure that you should be doing this?" he asked softly.

"Can't help it. The nights are still a mite chilly, though that will change soon. And the little ones like the fire," his gaze looked toward the cave entrance, where Eightor had joined nine other mice in a game. Two looked on, young still, but with the dignity that those between childhood and adulthood hold when watching those younger than them play their silly games.

Mesines noticed this and smiled, "Twelve? That's a lot."

"Aye, 'tis why we chose such a simple way of naming them, though at first we just liked numbers. The firstborn is named Una, and the lastborn is named Dozey."

"So Eightor is the eighth then?"

"Yes, and he is one of the most mischievous of the bunch. Always trying to run away, getting himself into rough places, worrying me," the mouse rambled on.

The stoat shook his head, wondering how they had managed to live so long.

"But children must explore," continued Araban, "And they will learn someday."

"Yes, someday..." mused the stoat, his thoughts caught in the streams of time, flowing backward like a river that runs north instead of south.

"But it is getting late, and the children are clamoring for storytelling," smiled the mouse. "Please, come inside. I'll let the fire die down."

Nodding, Mesines followed the mouse inside, wondering how he could still feel so contented and at peace.


	4. Chapter 3

**Thank you to Abbot Langus and LittleCatGirl for reviewing! :D**

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><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

Lord Boulderpaw did not feel at peace.

Instead, he felt ill at ease. Images of that young stoat whose family he'd killed kept appearing in his mind. Although he'd never actually seen the stoat, he was sure that it was the same one. Grunting slightly, he lifted the heavy hammer in his paw and brought it down with crushing force upon a glowing hot piece of metal.

One strike. Two strikes. Three.

He felt like he'd made a terrible mistake somehow.

888

Mesines watched the father mouse speak gently to his children as he weaved a tale of terror and desperation, of love and promises, and the mouse that was the centerpiece of it all.

Matthias of Redwall, who had slain the great rat Cluny the Scourge, was a hero that was second only to Martin the Warrior in importance. At least to the family, who were descended from northern mice.

"We were livin' alone up there, our tribe," explained Araban to the curious stoat. "I left that life to explore, and found an easier living down here. However, the blood of warriors runs in my veins, and my father and his father before him were swordmice of great renown. I sought to teach my two eldest how to use a sword, but they are only interested in farming."

He shook his head sorrowfully. "And there's been not a one among them that's shown promise as a warrior. Maybe it's the southern environment that's gentling them."

His eyes sharpened slightly, and they bore through Mesines like a pair of daggers.

"However, I noticed right away. You have been trained in swordfighting, yes?"

"A little," the stoat shrugged modestly. "I was taught by my uncle, but he said that I showed little promise."

"Hmm..." the mouse gazed at Mesines, with his wiry build and muscled limbs, with an expert eye. "Maybe. Maybe not. Say..." his brown eyes seemed to see into the stoat's soul. Mesines gulped. "Do you want me to train you?"

888

"Raise that sword higher! How many times have I told you that?"

"I'm raising it, I'm raising it!" griped the stoat good-naturedly. Araban's words reminded him of his uncle, but instead of an impatient warlord, his teacher was a stolid swordsman who never lost his temper. "In a fight, that can be a deadly mistake! Vermin- I mean the enemy will use that as an opportunity to go above your guard!"

They stepped around each other, the mouse hopping energetically. He'd been doing it since morning when they'd started, and now it was noon and Mesines was wearing down. However, the mouse seemed to have limitless energy.

"You're getting tired already. What's wrong, don't have enough stamina?" mocked Araban. He smiled and said, "Let's get this over with, then."

Suddenly, he was behind the stoat. As Mesines turned to block the stab, the mouse stuck his foot out. Too late, the stoat realized he'd been turned off balance, and fell forward, his wooden sword flying from his hand.

"That's enough," spoke the mouse.

Looking up, the stoat saw his newfound mentor give him a stern look, saying, "You've got potential, but you need to get more endurance on you. Running will take care of that. Hop to it now!"

Gazing blearily at Araban, and hoping that he'd heard wrong, the stoat got to his feet.

"Don't take all day, now! I'll lead you for a jog around the area! Let's go to the flatlands!"

Puffing to keep up, Mesines followed the mouse out of the foliage and toward the grassy fields where he had come from just the day before, carting a load of weaponry.

Maybe he should've stayed there.

"That's fine for now."

Those heavenly words barely penetrated through Mesines' brain. He staggered, and fell, panting like he could never get enough air. Araban gave him a critical eye.

"You'll do. But I'll take you for a run every day to make it stick."

The stoat's days were filled with running, training, and lessons in humility. He took it all wearily, realizing that he needed all the help he could get to improve. Each morning he'd go for a run, and when he returned to the cave, the mouse's wife, a kindly creature named Numera, would give him a hearty breakfast. Then the mouse would toss him a stick or a wooden sword, whichever one was available, and they would spar. After that, they'd eat lunch, and the stoat would have free time until after dinner, where he and Araban would play a game of strategy. Consisting of wooden pieces with different functions on a checkered slab, the mouse would urge him on and give him advice for moves he could make.

"You'll need to learn strategy when you've got an enemy staring you in the eye and battle lust in your brain. It will prevent your emotions from taking over entirely. In fact, it will keep you on your toes and your mind sharp for whatever tricks he might pull. For instance, here." The mouse lifted a piece and smiled, "Checkmate."

The stoat knew he had a lot to learn about everything.

888

On the deck of the Bloodbilge, the searat Bargud glared through one eye at the stammering ferret in front of him.

One side of his jaw had gotten damaged, giving him a permanent sneer that, combined with his eyepatch, made him look even more of a bloodthirsty, cruel pirate. Which he was. Through and through.

"Arr, git on with it, halfwit! Iffen it ain't sometin', it's sometin' else!"

Ringeye played with his claws while he spoke, nervousness making his voice come out in stutters: "C-C-Cap'n! Cutclaw 'as been missin' since evenin', an' our scouts 'ave reported the tracks o' those bunny rabbits ye mentioned."

"Bunny rabbits, eh?" replied the searat, his good eye staring out into the distance. Finally, he snapped out: "Arr! Whit be ye stannin' 'ere for, ye 'alfbaked tub o' lard! Git more scouts an' search fer tha' no-good flotsam of a weasel! I'd stake me dagger on it that that oaf's gotten 'imself caught or slayed by those rabbits from that dragon mountain."

The rat watched the rest of his crew suddenly busy themselves with tasks, trying to look as occupied as possible. Scowling, he stamped a foot upon the deck. "Yarr! Ye lily-livered scabs, ye ain't 'as even the courage of a minnow. Get ye on now!"

Bulling himself through the pack of vermin, they scattered like ninepins, but he managed to toss a few of them overboard into the jolly boat.

"Go and find tha' scurvy oaf, mates! Extra treasure fer those tha' find 'im!"

Immediately, the winded vermin were galvanized. Treasure was meat and drink to creatures such as these. Bargud grinned at the sight, providing a pretty grisly sight himself.

"Yarr, 'tis all these scurvy lads need," he muttered, before disappearing into his cabin.

888

The vermin scouts argued amongst themselves multiple times as they trekked through the sandy coastlands.

"Hoi there, Crookedfang, are ye sure that the tracks are fer those bunny rabbits?"

"Sure as crabs 'ave legs, matey."

"Aye, ye'd 'ave t'be pretty daft t'think otherwise, mate. Lookit the size o' those there tracks!" Ringeye the ferret cut in.

"Well, there seems t'ave been a big scuffle o' some sort, 'ere. An' those tracks there look right fierce, that they do." The original speaker, a stoat named Riptongue, looked nervously at the ground.

"Arr, I know, but the cap'n says t'look fer that swab, Cutclaw. I reckons he intends to settim up as 'zample ta others."

"Heeheehee," sniggered a rat, name of Floggsnout, the fourth and final member of the scouts. "I wuddent like t'be in 'is boots, that's fer sure!"

"That's iff'n 'e's still alive an' kickin'," intoned Crookedfang, a ferret, grimly.

Immediately the mood of the group plummeted.

"Aye," continued the ferret, "I've seen these bunny rabbits meself. Ye 'aven't 'cept for Ringeye, cummen' after'ards, but 'twas nigh a six seasons ago that we went against the stripedog 'imself!"

"'E was big, bigger'n all o' ye put together!" cut in Ringeye. His eyes were wide with fear. "An' he dealt out'n death wiv a big axe, bladed on both sides, 'twas."

"Yeah, roarin' 'Oolayee' or sometin' like that," interjected Crookedfang angrily. He did not like to give up his seat of attention. "An' the cap'n was quakin' in 'is boots."

"Well, we all were," said Ringeye, ignoring the glare his fellow ferret was bestowing upon him. "I kin tell ye, I think everybeast felt like runnin' away that day."

"An' did ye?" asked Floggtail eagerly.

Ringeye gave him a haughty look, "O' course we did, mate! We diddent 'ave no death wish, that's fer sure! But ole Barguts, 'e's been wantin' a go at that mountain ever since."

"Aye," agreed the other ferret, "'E's jist been bidin' 'is time, but I tell ye, I don't fancy goin' up against that horde agin'."

"Ye'd 'ave t'be daft in the 'ead or mad brave like our cap'n. An' 'e as a crew t'fight fer 'im. Alone, ye'd be deader than a deadbeast that ain't knowin' e's dead!"

888

Mesines walked toward the mountain, double-bladed sword in hand. It'd been a season since he'd joined Araban, and he knew he was ready.

Ready to take on the badger lord, the scum known as Lord Boulderpaw!


	5. Chapter 4

Hello there! It's been a while hasn't it? After the persistent prodding of certain reviewers, I've decided to update this story, officially taking it off the "on hiatus" status. However, it will not be my main story to update (sorry, but I'm focusing more on Fatal Cures. However, I promise the break between chapters won't be as long as this one was).

Sorry if the quality's bad. I didn't spend as much time editing as I normally do because I wanted to finally get this chapter out here! :D

**Thank you to Eulaliaaaa, irishgirl999, 55, Archduke Langus, Crocomanthegreatcommi, drewbie, and Rapmark Skaup for reviewing! Also Har-Si-Ese for adding to the count lol.**

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><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

Mesines approached the mountain, ignoring the summer heat. This was the time. The time for revenge!

He knew, as professional as they were, that the hares had probably put up scouts. Most likely, they were dashing back for the mountain right that moment. Well, let them. He'd show them what a stoat could do armed with the fires of revenge.

888

"Ahem, Lord Boulderpaw, some vermin is standing out in the blinking heat, babbling some nonsense or other about revenge. And confound it all, he's got Captain Clarion's double-bladed sword! Should we send the scurvy blaggard away?" Colonel Leafear, the badger lord's confidante after his brother Major Brightbob's death, stood in the entryway of the lord's private room.

A large male badger, Boulderpaw was still young and rash. He'd seen the face of a stoat in his dreams, and instinct told him that this was the very one.

"I'd wondered where that weapon went. It was a good one, one of the finest I've ever forged," he rumbled, "For that disrespect, I will battle him myself."

"Beggin' your pardon, sah, but he's only one, and a young 'un at that; are you sure?"

"Of course," the badger approached the resting place of his double-bladed axe. Picking it up, he hefted the large weapon easily.

"No matter what their age, vermin are vermin," he spoke. "When they're young, they'll grow up to be murderers, if they aren't already. However, you say he's alone?"

"Yessir, it's bally strange. Normally these vermin chaps go in groups, cowards doncha know?"

"Yes, but this isn't 'just a vermin.'"

888

Lord Boulderpaw stood on the sand, a ring of his hares surrounding himself and the stoat. This was his first time meeting him face-to-face, and it was as if the dream had come alive.

"Lord Boulderpaw!" the stoat growled, his voice still high-pitched from youth. "I've come to challenge you! You do not deserve to live for what you did to me!"

"And pray tell me, what did I do to you?" rumbled the badger, though he knew anyway.

"You killed my parents!" the stoat spat on the ground, eyes burning flames as if he were filled with the Bloodwrath himself.

"I am indeed sorry for that," the badger lord sighed, "However, the past is past. Your uncle killed many of my hares, and it was my love for them that drove me into a frenzy, just as yours is driving you."

The stoat shook his head, "Don't try and compare us; we're nothing alike!" His face contorted with rage, "Let's just fight! A battle to the death! Or are you afraid?"

Eyes glazing over with battlelust, Lord Boulderpaw barked, "Afraid? As if! Fine, then, if we are to fight, I should at least know who to call my enemy!"

"Mesines..." spat the stoat. "And I already know _your_ name. The high, the mighty, Lord Boulderpaw! Today shall be your last!"

He charged, ignoring the surrounding hares. They were too honorable to step in, especially since the lord had commanded them not to, even if things were to go wrong for him. Hah, he'd learn, but learn too late. Mesines held his sword ready, practice giving him the ability to hold it without handicap.

The badger blocked it with his axe, the weapons coming together with a clang.

"You are rash, to come here with as little knowledge of swordfighting as you have. Also insolent, to wield the weapon of the dead Captain Clarion in my face!"

Mesines gritted his teeth, shocked at the mad strength of his opponent. Sidestepping out of the parry, he dived again, hoping to take the badger by surprise.

But Lord Boulderpaw was an experienced fighter, and using a sideways flick, he tore the sword out of the stoat's paws, watching it imbed itself in the ground.

Not even panting, he gestured, "Go on, pick it up! I won't harm an unarmed opponent."

Cautiously, Mesines did so, and circled around the badger, cold fear starting to trickle its way through the wall of anger he'd raised.

"You are a weakling," Lord Boulderpaw spoke. "Fighting with a stolen sword, predictable moves, and a coward's heart. You have many more seasons to go before you can face me on equal footing, vermin!"

Without warning, the badger charged, lightning fast. His axeblade surged up to meet Mesines' throat, but stopped just before it could tear a hole in the creature's gullet.

The stoat tried to fight back the panicked feelings overflowing him, a whimper escaping his mouth.

"Are you going to beg for mercy now, stoat?" growled the badger.

Mesines couldn't help the words. "Please, spare me…" he choked out.

The badger laughed, and the stoat could see a bit of madness in those eyes. Madness that had raged in his. "You vermin are all the same, so eager to cut down innocent creatures yet so quick to resort to begging when your own life is on the line."

Mesines wriggled in his hold, doing his best to break free but unable to. The badger's fist tightened, ceasing the stoat's struggles.

"Lord Boulderpaw, are you all right?" asked a hare, coming forward.

The badger gazed at the bundle of fur in his paw for a long moment before lowering it reluctantly to the ground. Taking the sword from limp paws, he spoke to the hare, "This deserves to be with its master. Bury it near Colonel Clarion."

The hare blinked, and nodded. "Yessir, and what about him?"

Lord Boulderpaw sighed. On the one paw, he could not afford to grant mercy to vermin of any sort. This young stoat was your regular vermin, cowardly and deadly at the same time. If allowed to grow up unwatched, he might become just like his uncle. However, it grated against the badger's deep-rooted principles to kill anybody in cold blood.

"Hmph, what do you suggest?" he questioned the hare.

"Hmm, I suggest sending him to Redwall, wot. I don't think anyone from Salamandastron could stand having a vermin chap in the barracks. Cause for dissension and all that."

"I agree," the badger rumbled. "That'd be too much to ask of anybody here. Especially so soon after the battle. And Redwall has always stated that their doors are open for anybeast."

"Of peaceful heart," the hare corrected. "Do you think he came alone?"

"If he'd had an army to back him up, he would've used it. Vermin are opportunists; they use any resource at paw to achieve their ends. Still, when we send him off, have a couple of hares follow him, just in case."

"Do you think he'll listen? I doubt the chap will _want_ to go to Redwall."

Lord Boulderpaw's eyes glinted in the afternoon light. "He won't have a choice."

888

Mesines woke up where he'd fallen, paws bound. He started struggling immediately, ignoring the sand digging into his backside.

"Lemmego! Lemmego! Grr, too much of a coward to fight me, eh?"

His eyes latched themselves onto the monochromatic form before him. Rage burned in his belly, and he snarled, a trapped animal.

"Be silent," the badger's voice was sharp and angry. "You have been beaten, fair and square. Be thankful I found it pointless to slay your worthless hide."

The stoat's efforts redoubled at those words. Unfortunately for him, the rope used to tie him was tough and twisted in numerous convoluted knots.

"Oh, stop that blinking struggling, wot! You're lucky we didn't tie those ropes a pinch tighter!"

Mesines stopped his actions at the sight of a hare. A tough-looking beast, he had impeccable posture and a narrow, alert gaze. Scars crisscrossed straggly brown fur, and an enormous handlebar mustache framed a mouth twisted into a scowl. Just the sight of him caused the stoat to cower.

The hare's scowl deepened, "Corks, stand up straight there, lad. That's it, shoulders back, head up high, no need to look so glum doncha know, wot."

Mesines followed the instructions with confusion. Harsh he might look, but something in his manner reminded him of Araban.

The badger chuckled, drawing a keen-eyed glare once more. "Oh Colonel, still a sergeant at heart?"

The hare nodded stiffly, "Old habits die hard, Milord."

Lord Boulderpaw smiled, before turning to the stoat. "In any case, we have you here for a reason. The ropes are so you won't run away before we give you this message."

"And what would that be?" Mesines sneered.

The badger paused, "As it seems you cannot be trusted unsupervised, we've made arrangements to send you to Redwall. You've heard of it?"

The stoat nodded sullenly. His uncle had been obsessed with the place. He couldn't understand why, as it was just a group of stupid woodlanders all living together. It was unlikely the building had any treasure like the High Gorgish had claimed. Now _Salamandastron_, on the other hand. He wouldn't be surprised if there were some valuables _there_. The fire mountain, home to a group of fighters. They had to have a lot of weapons, all high quality. The fact that the place was guarded by highly-trained soldiers proved the point. There had to be _something_ there worth guarding. In Redwall, there were no guards, so no valuables.

"We hope that there, you will be able to step forward from this goal of yours, and live peaceably," Lord Boulderpaw growled.

Mesines was tired of hearing him talk. "I have no desire to visit this Redwall place that you speak of," he hissed.

The badger smiled. It wasn't a friendly one. "You don't have a choice."

The stoat bared his teeth, "You cannot order me around."

"I'm afraid I can," Lord Boulderpaw stated simply, and two hares appeared at the stoat's side like ghosts. With a slash of their lances, the ropes slid to the ground.

"You are free to leave. Here," the badger handed the dumbfounded stoat a scroll of parchment. "Give this to the Abbess."

Mesines scowled, realizing his unfortunate position. Grabbing the scroll brusquely, he turned on his heel and stomped to the nearby forest, mind turning desperately. He would _not_ go to Redwall. Instead, he would head north. His uncle had come from there, and maybe he could use his infamy to gather followers himself. It grated to have to rely on the High Gorgish for anything, but he would take any advantage. Plus, up north the vermin would be desperate for any scrap of gold or food they could lay claws on. A fat, fruitful land like Mossflower would be perfect for them. Maybe he could take over Redwall, use that as base to attack Salamandastron from. Then again, it was more likely they'd just waste soldiers on the place. Warlords had tried time and time again, but they had never fully succeeded. The place was probably cursed. Then he'd have to come up with something else…

That had been too easy. The stoat was planning something. Colonel Leafear nodded at the badger.

"Follow him," Lord Boulderpaw ordered the two hares.

Nodding, they disappeared into the brush after the stoat.


End file.
